


Zemsta

by theAlchemistofTime



Series: zemsta, rewanż, rewolucja [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Planes, Alternate Universe, Betrayal, Epic Stuff, Evil Plans, Evil schemevil villian out there, F/M, Friendship, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mythology - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Races and Weird Magic Talk, Polish Myth - freeform, Rule The World, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, oh! and bad language, so is my head, the world is a weird place
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:11:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAlchemistofTime/pseuds/theAlchemistofTime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The world is not the same. It has become a wilder place, something bitter and dark like where only the strongest would survive. I would love to tell you how this is like a zombie apocalypse, a game, or some shit like that but let me give you a reality check. </p><p>No. </p><p>The supernatural shit is almost hitting the proverbial human fan. So while chaos is falling between the hunters and the supernatural beings, I think someone might be trying to get control of the world. Crafty folks. Using the difficult time to up the game. I bet my cute little ass that sooner rather than later humans are going to get a brand new view of this world and it isn't going to be at the top of the food chain. And yeah I know this, but guess what?</p><p>I. Don't. Care.</p><p>The thing is, this world is going down the drain and I'm not going to move a finger about that."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pomegranate Seed

**Author's Note:**

> So this became a thing a few weeks ago and it probably is a big piece of wrong but... I'm sorry I couldn't resist it. So there. It has 8 chapter written out of the 18 thought. I hope you enjoy it :3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like there was no beginning, there was no end for him; for his existence. There was something inside that made him larger than life. He was steadier than the earth, stronger than the water, rebellious like the fire and free like the wind; he was this and so much more. He could cross this world and the other, see the time stop and advance before him. He became powerful, feared and loved. He was hunted and adulated.
> 
> And yet he felt so alone.

 

 

> “ _You know a cool thing dude? My grandmother once told me a story about a man who was immortal dude. That would be freaking awesome shit like-like vampire eternal you know?_ ” - Stiles Stilinsky

My babcia once told me a story about a man.

A man whom was said to be immortal.

She told me how he lived in this marvelous world, where humans and magic where entwined closely together; where fantastic creatures would live in forest and hide in the homes. She told me how that man sat alone with his books and his charms and his magic, how he sang with the light of the moon and the stars and wild animals that lived in the forest. He had no one for him but he lived happily, with his words and alchemy. But then, has the years passed, the man started feeling like something was missing; something very deep inside of him wished for more. To do more, to be more.

So one day he decided to travel the world in search of that something.

He walked and walked and walked; he crossed mountains, cities, vales, seas and deserts; he never stopped until he thought he reached the end of the world - _if there’s such thing_. It was a beautiful place, full of green and life, and light. But there at edge of all things, he found a tribe that told him that he was destined to do something very important, very great and beautiful and with this words shaman’s tribe in there gave him three seeds.

Three pomegranate seeds.

He said for him to eat one and guard the others; for when he was ready, he would know what to do with them. He asked the shaman the meaning of the gift and what was that he was destined to do, but the other just shook his head and smiled kindly saying that he couldn’t tell him for it was his job to learn and understand what was the meaning of such things. So he did like the other man said and ate one of the seeds. When he did, he knew he’d become something else, something more.

He’d become immortal.

But instead of being happy by that he was enraged. An ugly feeling at the pit of his stomach that boiled black in his soul. He was so mad and angry with them that not even his love for life saved the shaman. He killed the wise man and his tribe for making him even more confused and desperate. He found nothing, he was still missing something and yet now he would not die and had even more questions than before. And there was no answers for those questions.

As he stopped and thought, he took in the flare of rage and magic of his cursing words. And when he really looked, he saw that the place became, right at the edge of the world had become desolate and lifeless. He then felt guilty for his crimes and harshness - he had no right to do what he did so tried to undo his curse.

He took the second pomegranate seed and planted it in the shamans hut; with his magic and sorrow, he willed the tree to grow and drink all that made that land desolate and harsh. Willed the tree to drink in the death so it would give a place to life. That pomegranate gave only one fruit, a dark insidious thing that he held to himself so he would remember the crimes he committed out of rage.

With nothing else but hope it would become a beautiful place again he left. He stood in front of the tree and smiled at the dark ugly thing for he knew that one day he would come back to it. He went to travel again, with new eyes and new time. When he was traveling he learned new things, he saw life and death, he saw joy and sorrow, he saw love and hate, _he saw the world as it was, as it were._

By the then he knew he was limitless. Like there was no beginning, there was no end for him; for his existence. There was something inside that made him larger than life. He was steadier than the earth, stronger than the water, rebellious like the fire and free like the wind; he was this and so much more. He could cross this world and the other, see the time stop and advance before him. He became powerful, feared and loved. He was hunted and adulated. And yet he felt so alone.

One day he looked at the last seed that the shaman had given him and he knew what to do with it.

He went home, to his forest where everything started. He found everything different but his house had remained. In forest he laid the last seed and a seed of the dark tree he once created; And with his power and love for everything that was life, he created a pomegranate tree from the two. He watched her grow under his love, magic and tender care; and when she gave her first fruit he took five pomegranate seeds and turned them into five newborns, each bearing a spark of himself. All of them like him, all of them with something from within him. And he became just an immortal men. With no magic, no powers, just a man.

A eternal human.

He then took the five children and left them at the steps of five different families. Hopping they would grow and give themselves into the wonders of the world and spread his knowledge and protect the world and those who where loved by them. Then he traveled once more and reach the edge of the world where it had become such a beautiful place once more; even the ugly and dark tree had beautiful flowers around it.

My grandmother once told me the story of this man and his quest for something. And while she told me this she was just there, sitting in the porch of the house, peeling a pomegranate. I loved to hear her stories - they were magical, full of fantastic creatures and worlds that no one else would see. She was my favorite: beautiful, caring and dreamy like my mother, always in her own world. Others would tell she was crazy because she saw things, but I just saw someone who was too full of life to not share. A year later, after she told me this story, she was dying. I was just seven years old and babcia asked for me. While she was there in her white bed, she gave me a very little wooden box and smiled saying that we were all destined for something.

And she was right.

I was destined for something, I just didn’t knew what.

_Until now_.


	2. Instrumental Ignorance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter if something in his gut told him that this was only the beginning. Stiles didn’t want to thread to close to the supernatural world and their stupid wars; he wanted to be left in peace. This situation was involving him directly and he didn’t want to think in all the ramifications it had; this meant his thoughts would wander to things that he didn’t want to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't loose you all with this chapter :P  
> Also thanks for the kudos everyone.
> 
> Now to business:  
> \- I might rewrite half of this chapter because when I wrote it I kind of rushed it halfway through, so fair warning. I'm going to post another one tomorrow since I already have a few written I just want to give them a check so I don't end up doing like this one :x.
> 
> \- new tags added, because I don't really know how to tag :3 I am a chaotic person and this might be a little confusing, but I'm guessing the information will be more clear within the next chapters. Like a telling of parts, each begging will clear a path for new info.
> 
> \- So getting ready a few answers before the questions happen: stiles-centric, yes ladies and gent's. Multiple point of view? Yup. The sentence at the begging of each chapter will tell you which character will be the protagonist of the telling.
> 
> Anything else ask away and have a nice reading :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own them :'(

chapter 2

[ _instrumental ignorance_ ]

> “ _Did you ear it? I don’t think I understood anything he said. Deaton went all wise-fu and cryptastic telling something about enlightenment and path or some shit like that. I seriously was just like... What are you trying to say dude? Because I can barely get into that head of yours. And I was like - bro confess you just went and got smashed right?_ ” **-** **Stiles Stilinsky**

I ran.

No.

I left.

At first I left - not because of a change of heart or anything like that -, but because I couldn’t stand them looking at me with pity and weariness. There was also another reason. Truth was, there was something inside of me that was looking for acknowledgment, for a place, for a name to what I was. For an identity. I thought they would understand that I needed this; the time, the search. I kept hoping until the very end, but I guess it was not supposed to be. Time does change people. Just like choices or actions; even such small frames of time can make the biggest differences. And I had the unpleasant experience of understanding that at first hand, for when I came back to what I used to call home, things were changed. Everything I’ve come to see as... of mine forgot me, so I left.

And I never came back.

I was mad. Angry. Sad. _Disappointed_.

And in so many ways, broken. A boy that gave his trust like that, his heart, his being - a boy that gave himself, all that there was to give - and lost it? No. He cannot trust again. Cannot look at people in the same way he used to. It doesn’t matter if they were humans or supernatural folk. It doesn’t matter because in the end it’s all lies. Everybody lies and the world is not made of rainbows and butterflies. It a cold and merciless place. You either learn your lessons, or you’ll die.

_So_. No one would have my trust again.

Because if you can’t even trust the ones you called your family, your friends, your loved ones... who can you trust?

Please... I wish them no ill.

For the better or the worse they were - they are - part of what I have become. And part of what I am to be. Their actions and decisions along with mine designed me into something that had really no explanation. So I guess I still have to give them my appreciation - _because my gratefulness they wouldn’t have_. Nor my pity, or hope, or _trust ever again_.

I used to be a better person. Not this bitter shell. But you learn to adapt and in this world that meant that you could trust no one. That was the key for you to not loose yourself to others. For me? It was a matter of survival. I learnt to adapt, to survive. To hone my instincts to perfection, my words became deadly weapons and my wishes?

Became my will.

If you told my younger self that the world would change this much? That you could see the threads of the supernatural blending into the human world, that you could see them slowly getting into places of power, of control? That the hunters were getting so high in bloodlust and demented, enough that even killing humans was a choice? That even the planet was changing because of the sudden burst of magic and power shifting? And that was causing the so small balance we had to break? If you told me that that was happening?

_I would tell you had the crazies within you. Dude, so many crazies..._

But the reality is this.

And I wanted nothing to do with it. So I choose a neutral path. I took no sides. The deal I made was clear: no one would bother me and I wouldn’t intervene. I was going to seat and watch this world crumble and shake and evolve into a new era.

For seven years of my life I wandered with no aim. I sought explanations that had no answers. I found people, I’ve read so many scriptures and books and I even built myself a little sanctuary. Not only for me but also for others like me that held no desire to further into the brewing war. I’ve built myself a name that kept me safe from harm but at the same time, kept me in the loop of the happenings. I was... satisfied with what I had. I could always get back to wandering to wherever, I could reach whatever I wanted, do whatever I felt like doing.

But you know how the past is - it always came’s back to bit you in the ass.

So there was always a nagging feeling at the back of my mind. And I remembered with feverish dreams and words. At one point of our little adventures, Alan Deaton, told me and- he told us something about enlightenment that I didn’t quite understand at the time. It was something along this lines: ‘ _enlightenment is not gained by striking the bell or hearing its toll; it's found in the silence that follows_ ’. At the time, I couldn’t care less about what he was saying, to busy trying to save us or trying to be part of something I was never meant to be.

However... I heard it.

I heard the silence and I understood. The realization wasn’t such a big happening like they write in the books, or show in the movies; a ruckus full of observations and wonderings about what was happening, about what I was, or a burst of magic and power that happened suddenly. I was not almighty all of the sudden. The realization wasn’t a blast of knowledge that swept over me. No. It was quiet, simple and deadly.

And I was fool, naive and in love.

And very much not ready to accept it.

[...]

It was early in the morning.

The light filtered through the glass and the bookcases, stretching gently through the wooden floors. The walls around were covered in books and small pots containing everything, from herbs, to strange and colorful liquids. There were stacks of books lying around the floor; some baskets overflowing with herbs and a few papers here and there. It didn’t look like they had any kind of order or rhyme, but it made the shop look oddly cozy. Like a home rather than a business.

There was a sweet scent in the air. _Chamomile_ maybe? It was entwined with something citric like - _orange_? But there was also the intense smell of roasted coffee beans, but that might be because of the coffee mug sitting on the counter in the middle of the shop.

And at the wooden counter there was a young man.

His hair was caught in a ponytail at the base of his neck and his pale skin splattered with constellations of moles. His arms were hidden with a long sleeved shirt and his jittery legs were covered in some well worn jeans. He was reading a book but he wasn’t still; his lips moved from time to time and one of his hands making small movements as if following the words on the page, the other poised in mid air twitching the fingers like small spams.

He radiated energy.

He was focused in the reading but he heard the small soft sound of the rustling of the pages and the approaching foot falls in the old quirky wooden floor.

“You really should clean the basement” a voice said beyond the back door, “Or at least let someone else do it. It is becoming a menace, you know? I could have lost a hand!” the man sitting at the counter took his eyes from the book he was reading and stared back at the younger man.

Stiles supposed he wasn’t so bad, after all he was the one whom he trusted his shop with while he was away. And he was a rather good looking guy - he couldn’t deny that. Or at least his eyes weren’t going to complain about the blond curls and the brown orbs, “ _And definitely not complaining about those biceps_ ” he thought to himself. After all he was a hot blooded man, he knew how to appreciate the finer things of life. Like those biceps. All in all, the guy was cool enough for Stiles to take under his wing. He proclaimed himself to be his tutor, lending him access to my library and knowledge, and in exchange Van would take care of his shop. Vanlentin Amsel was a young witch he stumbled on and while witches tended to be vicious and quite prone to evil, the younger man hadn’t exactly shown any traces of wanting to go down that path. He seemed more content in trying to reach his books about Planes and constellations rather than the books about ‘ _A Guide in How to Make your Own Army of the Undead_ ’.

Which could be an interesting book.

“Well I’m guessing the traps work just fine” the slightly older man answered with a thin smile as the other just sputtered, holding tighter his books and looking a bit offended “Don’t worry dude, I know your obsession with Planes. Rest assured that you are not going to get anywhere near those books while you don’t know how to make a spell without bursting the lab” he said giving Van a pointed look. Stiles still remembered having to put a fire down after the latest experience from the young witch.

Without waiting for a response he dived into the book again. Stiles could hear Van complaining about how unlucky he was that he got a bossy librarian and that he was most definitely not a baby. He snorted at that statement; he was a young thing still and had a lot to learn. His lips arched a bit into a small smile; Vanlentin reminded how he used to be. A fool young thing.

He still had a half mind on the young witch when the wind chime tinkled through the shop and he reacted automatically.

“ _Powitanie_...” Stiles didn’t took his eyes from the book he had in his hands, so when the stranger advanced inside the shop and without another warning drooped a package on the counter, he was startled. His book fell onto the floor and his heart beat shoot up having to put his hand in his chest to smooth the rapid beating organ.

“ _Psiakrew_!” the polish curse left his lips without him even thinking about it. Now he was more used to his mother language than the english so it came naturally to him. He gave a wary look to the man that kept looking at him like he had the plague; it’s not every day that your costumers look at you like they want you to disappear, “What can I do for you Sir?” he asked already knowing that he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“I need you to deliver this” he said through a thick russian accent.

Or what it sounded like a russian accent, Stiles supposed. As far as he knew the strange man could be faking it, but it did sounded pretty real. After all, accents are difficult to truly imitate now a days and even then you had to at least be knowledgeable about the culture to know how to make the right pronunciation.

But getting back into the topic. His mind was getting into one of those tangents again - _and about an accent_.

His eyes were fixed on the guy; it was quite obvious to him that this was a supernatural being. And whatever it was he couldn’t recognize the race - he liked to think of himself as a living encyclopedia, so that said a lot. His finely tuned senses were screaming at him that, even if the guy looked human enough, the guy was dangerous and that package had something that was messing with his energy. Besides that the man was just too beautiful, to perfect like to not be a supernatural creature.

Seriously _. No seriously_. Black hair perfectly styled and a pair of blue eyes that were so vivid that you had to think the guy is using chlorine in his eyes.

The spark was dying to get rid of the man; put him out of his shop and out of the city. He was giving him bad vibes and all that bad energy had him positively restless. He was annoying himself really - _could you imagine how others were feeling_? But he wasn’t rude to that point and he was a bit curious if nothing else.

_You know curiosity killed the cat and all that shit._

And he could use the costumers. Not that Stiles was in the business for money but he still needed to pay the rent and food. He didn’t live of air, au contraire of popular belief. So he couldn’t afford to loose costumers, no matter how rude they were or how much you didn’t want to have them near you.

“Okay... You do understand that this is a bookstore and an apothecary, right?” the young man pointed at the sign with typed letters on top of the counter “Not a delivery service” he finished the sentence and his body stiffened slightly at the posture the man was giving of. It was making the hairs of his neck stand; he felt very uncomfortable and he wasn’t liking this one bit, so he gave the stranger a smile. Lips stretched over his teeth, an inviting manner so very fake that you could have gone to hills to avoid it, “You should check Joe’s around the corner, he’s a great guy and usually gives discounts at--”

The guy slammed his hands on the wooden counter top, making the glass vials chime in a threatening way. A snarl escaped from his mouth and the spark narrowed his eyes in aggravation. “ _He had the audacity of snapping at me? How dare he?_ ” his thoughts taking a dark edge at the behavior of the man. This days were hard on him and people like this? People that think that the world is theirs and you should bid every command they give?

_Stiles hated them._

“You can cut the crap right there” said the man with a scowl, his accent took a dangerous edge, “I know this isn’t just a regular shop and I know that your boss has the way to make this happen” he said with a certainty that made Stiles quell his sudden urge to laugh. Because in reality the man was referring to him since he was the boss around there. So he curbed his desire to just send the man away by telling him that he just talked to the boss and efficiently granted him option to not fulfill any kind of service.

Rudeness took you nowhere.

“Then you also know that this is neutral territory dude” he answered in a nonsense voice “So if you don’t want to get your ass kicked out of here, by my boss, you should be a nice person to the clerk” he continued putting his hands on the counter and spreading them showing of his long and dextrous fingers. His smile staying exactly the same, wide and fake. In exchange for his words he got an eye-roll and a push on the package. Stiles could feel the magic drifting from it and it was not that good feeling you got from magic. The one that feels like small and subtle waves lapping at your skin tenderly. No. This had a bitter taste to it; he could feel the prickling of his skin and the heaviness of its wave. His own power curled and twisted curiously over the brown wrapped box; his body responding almost weirdly, as if it was being stretched to thin.

Suddenly he wanted to have nothing more to do with it. He wanted out. Out of there. _Now_. He wanted it out of his shop and out of the city. The man’s temper seemed to be getting better of him, his lips thinned and his patience running low.

“I want him to deliver this package to a guy named the _Alchemik_ ” he said his voice saying the name clearly like it wasn’t the first time he spoke the word. Stiles blinked a few times, with a blank face he watched has the other being flared his nostrils and cooked his head slightly - as if he was assessing his reaction to the request. But the younger man said nothing and just smiled as fake as before and shrugged his shoulders.

“Let me get my boss then, so he’ll see if he can help you” he said already turning on his heels but feeling extremely cautious for turning his back on someone he didn’t trust. He didn’t like the situation one bit and he was going to use his boss status to get the damned man, and the damned package out of his shop.

Van was used to this by now and he never asked. He was inclined to believe the boy understood his need for privacy. Besides it was part of Stiles way to remain shielded from people like this. But now and then, they came into the shop waltzing and demanding and such - he hated it with a feeling. He got to the back of the shop easily enough and grabbed a coat and a pair of glasses that were in one of the shelves in the hallway. When he got to the room the boy - he had almost Stiles age anyway - was, he just nodded to him and tossed him the items. Vanlentin just gave him the lazy eye and he watched as the younger man dressed up, chanting a small incantation that permitted him to change his appearance slightly.

It was a useful trick.

For him and for the younger witch. At least for nowadays it was, the ability of being capable of getting disguised is a good one. Van already knew the drill and he just sighed leaving his work and giving a glare at the spark, but when he arrived at the front of the shop he just blinked and stared.

“Are you kidding me here Stiles?” Van asked with an annoyed voice to which he responded with a very unimpressed glare. The younger man rolled his eyes making the older bristle and narrow his own honey orbs at the action. It was high time to get the eye roll banished, Stiles was getting tired of it. First the man and now his own pupil? He was going to have words.

“Well... If there was anyone here, what did they want?” the witch asked putting his hands at his waist in an impatient gesture. He cast a look around trying to see if there was anything out of place.

“I dunno” he answered not bothering to explain any further than that “And you better have those recipes written and learnt by the end of the day or you’ll be getting the delight of getting the basement clean” he threatened and watched the young mans Adam apple bob as he swallowed dry.

“You’re not serious” he said, eyes as round as the moon, “You’re serious!! No! I can’t!” his voice gained a high pitched tone as he ran into the back of the shop again. Stiles chuckled evilly already knowing that the witch was going to get a spell to do the copies for him, but he would get him.

“ _Smart ass_ ” he thought as he bent down to catch the book he had left on the floor. His body still had that unpleasant buzz all around; he wanted it gone but he guessed it was the excess of energy of just the side effects of being subjected to the weird package.

He hummed softly as sat once more behind the counter.

The routine taking over again as the morning kept going and he kept reading about vampires and their exquisite memories - “ _And the most fascinating ones too_ ” the young spark supposed as he fell comfortably in place.

It would only be a whole lot later that he found the package lying in the waist bin on the corner of the shop.

[...]

He was staring intently at it.

And he was getting more and more pissed about the situation.

Stiles could almost feel the package mocking him, making fun of him where it sat at the small coffee table. He could feel its magic thrum around him making his own power curl and twist in response. He had found the brown box in the waste bin at the corner of the shop, and he really should have seen that coming. And now look where it is...! In his living room. Whispering to him like a siren calling into its prey.

_Open me... Come now open me._

He was in a fowl mood and he could already feel a headache coming.

“Stupid asshole” he said running his long fingers through his hair “And stupid package” he asserted himself with the brown box glaring at it as if it would respond to his words. “Well it might” he thought trying to reign in his battling emotions, “This is sooo bad... I’m having a ‘dejá fu’ seriously” he whispered to himself, thinking about how many times he already got into trouble because of things like this.

Stiles sighed and tried to stop his jittering body. He couldn’t stay still; his body hummed and buzzed with energy - like an electrical current, always flashing a bit and never still. His knees bounced and his hands traced patterns in air trying and failing to reach to package. He was trying to fend both the curiosity he felt and the deep desire to pack things and run. For once he wanted to know what was inside the brown box, what was in there that made his power hum with energy? But on the other hand he had a bad feeling, like he wasn’t going to like what was inside; it made him queasy and ready to bolt. It made him uneasy, like a very bad foreboding.

He had survived all this years by learning to respect this extra sense he had. Stiles was, if nothing else, a great strategist, he knew how to read signs and use them in his favor. He learnt the harsh way that to survive amongst the supernatural you’ll always have to keep in view all your options. In this case, the young spark choose neutrality, and that gave him a big advantage. His alias was respected in both supernatural and hunter worlds, but it didn’t get him out of problems like this.

Taking a deep breath, he reached his hands towards the package and he wasn’t really expecting the reaction it got him. Almost immediately, light exploded from the box, making the brown paper dissolve into blue flames baring its contents to the young spark. A medallion rose from the amidst of the small blue flames; a silver looking object cut and shaped like leaf. Also two little purple stones fell gently down the table and it was that made him recognize what this was.

_Serin_.

He was dead.

Serin was dead; whatever it was killed him and this were his remains, per se. His heart missed a beat and his throat tried to close up. He reached his hand that had retreated and without any other thought he touched the medallion. “It can’t be...” he whispered to himself as he looked at the three items in front of him; his mind going quickly through all the scenarios this could mean. He was rightfully afraid. Stiles was by no means weak but to kill Serin, or to kill one of his kind? The spark was shocked; trapping a _Djyn_ was no easy feat, to trap an _asimaar_?

Almost impossible.

To kill it?

_Impossible. Undoable. Unachievable. Unattainable. Unrealizable._ You name it.

It simple wasn’t done. The _asimaar_ were a race that dwelled in the divine plane and that made them as close to immortality as it was; they were powerful beings that preferred to delve into knowledge and looking at stars rather than battle and win worlds. They were kind beings, the could be arrogant and hard headed but, for all the power they had they weren’t violent. Nor easily killed.

Whatever that killed Serin had to very strong.

When an _asimaar_ dies the only thing that is left from his body are the eyes that readily turn into stones - generally two amethysts. Stiles knew - like one knows his deep down of his own bones - that this were Serin’s eyes; this was what was left of his... friend? His mind was reeling. This was more that a warning sign, this was a promise of what was to come.

_Look at what I can do._

It spoke, it warned. There were beings that were above the asimaar alright - but gods and such could not interfere in the matters of the planes. If there was something that could control a being this powerful and it wasn’t a divinity? Stiles was screwed, so very screwed. This was going to create an unbalance the young spark was not expecting. And there was also something that was throwing him out of loop: who would give word to him? And why?

As the _Alchemik_ , he was known for his neutrality. He favoured no sides and gave no helps. He wanted nothing to do with the war that was brewing between the hunters and the supernatural. Stiles just knew that humanity was going to have a new view of the world and it wasn’t going to be at the top of the food chain.

The feeling of foreboding clenched his gut as he cradled the two little amethysts in the palm of his hand.

[...]

He should have known.

He really should have known. And he also should have taken the warning a bit more seriously. But as the days passed by and nothing happened, Stiles just relaxed. After a week of having to constantly watch his back, his frayed nerves needed a break. I even thought that this could be a prank from Serin - he was in denial, a part of him really wished this was no more than a very bad joke. He had met the asimaar a few years back and they’ve developed a nice truce. After all, everyone wanted to have that kind of being on your good side - nobody wants to get their asses smite. And how could Stiles refuse information on divine beings? He just couldn’t. All he had to do was put up with him.

But he was digressing.

Stiles now had a problem and that problem being a werewolf in his living room.

Just a few moments ago he was having a nap in the couch and in the next he was being rudely woken by a loud bang. He only had time to sit up in the couch and throw away the books and the papers in his lap. He looked at the creature with blue eyes and furry coat. The adrenaline was pupping in Stiles veins as he watched as the were snarled and drolled allover the place while--

While pointing a gun at him.

The young sparks eyebrows shot up in indignation and confusion.

A werewolf using a gun to kill? That was something new - well, _not new per se_. But it was not a method of assassination for such creatures. They were know for making very unclean kill or at least to maim. All he could think was that there was something that wasn’t right in that scenario and that he was missing some part of the puzzle. He dismissed everything as soon as the wolf moved forward, he reacted out of instinct.

The shot came with and he lifted a hand creating an invisible shield in front of him, putting a stop in the projectile. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, completely unimpressed by the display of the dog. He dropped the weapon onto the floor and crouched into the floor as Stiles eyes started to whiten suddenly; the spark took in the bunching of tense muscles as he lifted his hand; his body prepared for a sprint that would never come.

“You expected me to take it?” he lifted a brow in curiosity and let his lips stretch evilly, “How _quaint_ of you...” he turned his hand half way and let the electricity charge forward.

Stiles looked like a tesla coil. Electricity poured out of him and charging strait to the werewolf shocking the beast and making him twist and turn in the floor, until there was no more response from it. He looked like one of those toasted things you hate at Mama Glen - Stiles was crazy about those. He was hungry sue him, it didn’t meant he was going to eat the guy or something like that. He was no cannibal, thank you very much. On the other hand it meant that now his living room smelt of burned flesh and hair, and that was not a pleasant smell.

He pursed his lips as his eyes returned to the normal amber color. He had just killed the only thing that could lead him to some kind of clue or information. The young man sighed and looked at his ceiling; he had just killed a werewolf, of course he had to kill a were. Or kill for that matter. Now a days it seemed that the smallest things would trigger him into this kind of behavior.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He lifted his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. This was a load full of shit; he now had to give fair warning to the Council and had a dead body in his hands and possibly an innocent one at that. He didn’t want to get his hands dirtier than they were already - he wanted nothing to do with this. Whoever it thought he was going to give a shit about this world was wrong. Stiles was going to warn the Council and that was it.

No matter if something in his gut told him that this was only the beginning. Stiles didn’t want to thread to close to the supernatural world and their stupid wars; he wanted to be left in peace. This situation was involving him directly and he didn’t want to think in all the ramifications it had; this meant his thoughts would wander to things that he didn’t want to think about.

Behind his eyelids green and fire flashed.

He remembered the faint smell of pine and ashes.

And his heart became heavy as a stone.

This was not in his plans. But if he was going to suffer, he was not doing it alone.


	3. And Providence Shall Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Keep quiet and keep with me” the older man said “Trust no one and try not to make much eye contact” he advised passing his fingers in the runes that would open the door “I don’t know what is going to be down there and there is so much I can do to protect your young and naive snout” he warned the young wolf and smiled in amusement at hearing his indignant exclamation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothin'.

chapter 3

[ _and providence shall give_ ]

> “ _Friedrich Nietzsche wrote: the man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies but also to hate his friends’. No harsher words were wrote and none came so close to the truth of his life. I wish I could see the future for I am afraid of what it holds to us._ ” - Alan Deaton  

When I first saw Nadzieja Stilinsky I knew a new era was about to emerge.

I am not a seer nor a creature of vision, I was - I am - a human and a witch doctor, Emissary of the Hale Pack. Just like the rest of my family as been for generations past. But the first time I saw the beautiful Nadzieja, I knew from deep inside of me - just like I knew that my magical core had an affinity with healing -, that she was a power to be reckoned with. And a force that once moved wouldn’t stop until she reached her goal. The hazel and honey eyes that spoke something otherworldly, of realms that no human couldn’t reach. A smile that put the wisest man in a daze and a voice that sang of the divine. And when she moved, all eyes would be on her, for she was as gentle as breeze and bold as tidal wave. She was intelligent and gentle, not afraid to speak her mind and she wore her heart in a sleeve. She was a perfect making of a queen, or an alpha.

But then again she had no wish to rule. And those generally made the best rulers.

When I first saw Świętomierz Stilinsky I knew an end was being planed.

The little babe that was presented to Hale Pack - to the Hale family - barely out of the womb and onto the hands of Talia Hale, was just like his mother. Powerful and ruling. When he opened his eyes, they hadn’t yet the color of his mother or father; just like any other baby, they held a sky blue that in time would turn into honey and hazel just like Nadzieja. But the babe stilled in the werewolf’s arms and he looked into the alpha like one would recognize an equal. And those baby blue eyes - yet to take it’s true color - held a hint of greatness but also a hint of chaos and madness. I knew it, just like I knew Nadzieja was something more than mere human.

John Czesław Stilinsky and Anna Nadzieja Stilinsky weren’t immediately presented to pack once they came to Beacon Hills. After all the supernatural was not known to the humans and at first sight, neither of the elements of the family presented a supernatural gift - only at closer inspection. The reason why the two of them were shown to the leader of the territory was because I met Nadzieja.

So you could say that I would be the trigger to the next twist of events that would change the course of destiny of this territory and the families that lived in it.

And just like that the Stilinsky, just like the McCall, the Whittemores’ and the Reyes’ became part of the Hale Pack.

I remember being so happy for Nadzieja when she told she was pregnant of her first child, just like Maria Hale was pregnant with hers and Peter’s. Cora and Stiles were born in the same year and couldn’t be more different. I watched all the children of the Hale Pack grow; I watched Stiles grow into his power under the subtle tutelage of his mother. The hyperactive child could hold such things inside of him. Not that everyone understood what was happening, because Nadzieja would always be there to sooth and dispel the waves of power of her child.

I watched and felt and became afraid. I knew which ties were closer and which could grow into something beautiful. I knew Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinsky could grow to be something more. Everyone with eyes could see the gentleness of the young wolf towards the child and how the child would never ignore nor put back the attention of the older boy.

But as fate is, it wasn’t bound to happen.

An event would bring a rift and later death would claim victory over Beacon Hills, for both families.

Eight years ago I was the last person to see the Stilinsky boy. At the time no one knew if he was alive or dead, if he just came to be a human like any other or if he joined another pack. No one would know. I watched him leave twice. The first time, I knew he would come back to us; I knew he needed us to heal. But he also needed something else, for wounds like that couldn’t be soothed with simple words and caring gestures. When he came back he was changed; he had seen darkness and was wiser, he had discovered something that made him new.

But the second time - the true last time I saw the young spark - I was afraid. I was afraid of what we’d become to him. What we represented in his mind, for everyone was still grieving and actions and words cannot be measured at such times. And yet there are no truer words than those that we speak when we are most vulnerable. I was so afraid. Because the beautiful honey and hazel eyes were touched by a hint of darkness and calculating gaze that spoke more than flimsy words. I wish I wasn’t at end of that look but I was the last person he saw.

So of course, as fate is, I would be the first person he saw eight years later.

[...]

“Would you move faster?” the man with chocolate skin spoke in a crisp tone. The younger figure, Isaac Lahey, was following him a bit behind so he could watch the city around him; but as soon as he heard the man’s harsh tone he switched his eyes back to the man and picked his pace so he could walk at the side of Alan Deaton.

The man was in a hurry and late - oh so very late -, for the meeting he had managed with the council of the Emissary Guardians. He watched by the corner of his eye, as the young werewolf rolled his eyes keeping the pace but still trying to get a look around; he shook his head in despair.

They were in New York and you would do well to ask why. This was the city that held the center of all things; like Beacon Hills it was a strategic point in the confluence of forces, so all the councils were present in the same territory. It didn’t matter if they were Hunters or Supernatural. This was considered a neutral ground, which meant that it was not necessarily true. Attacks still occurred - they were a bit more controlled.

Alan Deaton knew that the world was not like it once was; instead of being divided on several shades of grey, it was black and white. Like a chessboard being played by higher forces that no one understood. And while the supernatural and the hunters were playing at wars, the humanity was to ride along, because between those two, the more causalities came from the human realm. They hadn’t the kind of preparation or knowledge wise to fight this kind of war. They were canon food, used to chance a war that would bring everything into chaos.

And that was exactly what the kind of people like Deaton was trying to avoid.

Emissaries knew the price that there was to pay if a war like this happened. The cost it had in mother nature was to bit and it was already reflecting into the world; strange happenings were causing the humans to start paying attention to where they shouldn’t be looking. The world bellow them was not a thing they would want to get onto the known but sooner or later it was going to happen. As it was the earth shook and ashes fell from the sky, rivers would grow out of their flow and plantation would dry in a matter of minutes. Animals were agitated and the skies were growing darker each passing day.

A war was indeed brewing.

“Do you really know where the entrance is? Aren’t you just running in circles?” Isaac’s voices brought him out of his musings and he wasn’t happy with the young pup. At least in his eyes the werewolf was still a pup - it was difficult not to look at the younger man and not want to smother him. Sometimes he would grate on his patience but on the other hand they were the most loyal creature one could find in this world. Or at least should be.

Deaton stopped in the middle of the busy street and gave a very unimpressed look at him making him blink and look at the ground like a kicked pup. Sometimes we wondered why he was given this job and why did he choose it. He was not a patient man even if he liked to look like one; he talked in riddles and loved to make other people think for themselves rather than telling them all the answers.

“I hope we arrive at time to the meeting, otherwise, you’ll be responding to your Alpha” he told the younger man has he proceeded to walk down the street. The place where the guild was situated was actually a bit of a cliché, even if a beautiful one. The old church of St Mary was one of the places from where you could descend into the underground; it was an old building that was snatched from the hunters many centuries ago.

“Do you think they’ll demand us to go fight for them?” Isaac asked his suddenly not just curious but also insecure “I mean they can’t force us to go, right?” he ended the question in a whisper and Alan wanted to assure him that, ‘no they wouldn’t do such thing’. But he couldn’t lie; he didn’t knew what was to come, to many factors to depend on and the truth was that things were changing fast.

“To tell you the truth they can force us to make a decision” the chocolate skinned man said to the young werewolf after a while “But it is within us that we’ll find the strength to follow or to rebel” he added, trying to convey that they still had a bit choice. And they did have, even if it was just a mirage in a desert.

“Well at least we know where we stand” the pup said and Deaton could only imagine his grim face as he somewhat accepted their fate even if the hope wasn’t all squashed up.

That was the thing about Isaac: he never gave up hope until the very last. He would hold onto that last thread and would plow through if it meant to save those the cared for. He was an amazing young man, just like the others in his pack. Just like his family. The family he swore to protect.

“Well, here we are” he said cutting the wolf from saying anything else. The old building was at the end of the street; a beautiful thing aged by time and use. Big archways marked the entrance, with gargoyles leaping from the columns to greet the night as they were accursed to do. The walls around the precinct hid a garden that would extend itself along the whole building, giving a small ground of neutral territory for all the races. It was the closest to sanctuary that one could have.

Both the druid and the werewolf entered the building easily. Deaton felt his own lips twitch in a semblance of a smile when he felt the wall of heat on his back. He could feel Isaac vibrate with the need to explore the place and wondered why he choose to bring the curious young man with him to such place.

The church was almost empty as their steps echoed in the stone walls; a cleric gave them a nod as he was passing but other than that the building could be divested of life. As far as Deaton could see, the pup could tell differently with his higher senses; they kept quiet and to themselves while the druid looked for the niche where the hidden door was. It wasn’t as easy as it seemed because the entrance had to be guarded well enough so no humans trespassed the barriers. That would be a problem and it had already happened once or twice.

“Keep quiet and keep with me” the older man said “Trust no one and try not to make much eye contact” he advised passing his fingers in the runes that would open the door “I don’t know what is going to be down there and there is so much I can do to protect your young and naive snout” he warned the young wolf and smiled in amusement at hearing his indignant exclamation.

The stones around the sculpture from the far wall moved and opened a hole in the ground showing a long staircase that went underground. Just at he same time, a torch lit itself up and the echoes of moving feet in the distance were heard. It would be a busy day but at least, Deaton knew, but they had an appointment. If they were lucky enough they wouldn’t loose all day with that. They descended quickly albeit with some difficulty because the place was small and it was hard to move and not fall from the stairs. The emissary just wished he was younger and with better bones, as the humidity in the air was felt and the stoned path became difficult. They arrived at the foyer after a few minutes of walking in those labyrinth like corridors but when they got inside it was worth it.

A true sight to behold.

The archways at the end of the stairs dissolved into a big marble chamber. It was lighted up with golden hues and colorful ceilings that were supported by long rows of elegantly sculpted columns. There was a grand staircase that lead to a mid level; it was decorated with marble, crystal and gold sculptures that followed up the steps until they lost themselves into the smaller chambers. People and creatures came out of different archways, passing and crossing their paths as one would do in the market.

Deaton himself was marveled, even if it wasn’t his the first time in this place, but Isaac was completely lost in observing his surroundings. Like he was trying to drill on his memory the place. He was about to tell the young wolf that they could come and explore later when one tall and imposing figure approached them.

“What is your business here in the Halls?” a guard demanded our query with an impressively guttural voice and an armor of bronze and iron, possibly with some silver around it. After all they were made to be effective against any kind of race. Deaton blinked a few time and was state his affairs when a figure of a young man came and he recognized it as being Mark Jancer, one of the few people he knew from around here.

“They’re with me and they are going to have a meeting with the Guardian council in about twenty minutes - there” he pointed at the paper he was showing the armor and the metallic figure proceeded to nod and grant us passage “Alan! It’s good to see you!” he touched the druids shoulder briefly and the older man tilted his head to him as he nodded to Isaac, “A Pack member?” he asked looking kindly at the young man plastered on the druids back.

If it wasn’t so uncomfortable the doctor would find it amusing.

“It is good to see you too Mark” Alan replied with a rare curve of lips. The other natured mage started to walk them in direction of the stairs so they could go to the upper rooms where the meeting would be held. Mark spoke a mile an hour always ready to say something asking how things were at Beacon Hills, if they were so convoluted like they were in here at New York. Apparently a wave of bad intended curses were disturbing the subway and pixies were putting riots in parks being almost seen by humans.

It was a complete chaos.

Deaton was about to respond to Mark when he felt it.

The air became suddenly charged.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his body became tense like the strings of a violin; his own magic recognized the presence like it did so many years ago. But there were small differences now; the feeling wasn’t as overwhelming as it used to be, it was more contained, there was a grace and a gentleness to it like an invitation: ‘I’m here but you need not to worry’ kind of presence. On the other hand there was an heaviness and something dark curling around its edges; there was something uncontrolled about it, something akin to madness.

The witch doctor ignored the man a few steps in front of him and turned to see a figure enter the foyer.

The man came in and nobody stopped him, he was wearing a red coat that went past his knees; his face was protected by the longer edges of the hood and his sleeves were rolled up showcasing bare arms and their intricate pattern of tattoos. His posture was calm and he advanced trough the crowd like one would navigated down a steady stream; his body slightly tensed like he didn’t really want to be there but there was a need to it.

Deaton dry swallowed and blinked a few times trying to balance himself. The young man looked so grown up, no longer the skinny quirky kid that left them. The memories of a young smiling child filled his mind and his mask crumbled for a few seconds as longing and sadness wore their way into his heart. It had to be him, it had to. He was struggling with the need to go there and touch the figure to try and see if it was real. But Alan Deaton knew, his magical signature was clear and as imposing as it was - his presence still felt unique. And like a werewolf would recognize the scent of one person, Alan could read the magical presence of one person.

“Oh sacred _Nim_!” Mark broke his thoughts and the witch doctor looked at him. The young trainee’s eyes were as big as the moon and were looking beyond him and to the figure that slowly came into view. A small sound escaped his lips, something like a sigh and a whine and it was as if he suddenly forgot all about Deaton and Lahey, “That’s a rare sight to behold” he said, his head moving to follow the steps of the red hooded figure “That’s the Alchemik” he whispered like it was a secret of some kind “And he is pissed” he added bobbing his head in a knowing gesture, dark curls bouncing around his head.

He felt Isaac come closer; his heat touching his back in a protective gesture and Alan had half of mind to think if the younger wolf could smell the other from this distance. But with so many races and people moving around the ample space he wasn’t so sure about his abilities; for a few moments he wished Isaac didn’t because he was not going to be able to be a mediator of any kind. He would be as effected as the wolf and an encounter like this one was bound to be a violent thing - even if just with words.

Things weren’t the most peaceful when he left.

“How do you know that?” Alan asked keeping his eyes in the figure; he wouldn’t have made that assessment since he looked relaxed moving around the crowd. Some spotted him, but they were few; he moved with a stealth of an assassin and a determination of a hippo. And that’s saying a weird combination.

“He never uses a direct entrance to come here. Unless he wants to make his presence known. And that means he is here for business and not pleasure” Mark said with a knowing voice “He prefers to use portals and entrances where he can avoid people” he made a gesture with his head and pointed towards the moving crowd that seemed to part like the red sea, unknowingly “You see? Look how he walks. He makes them move around and away from him, without them knowing. He touches no one and no one touches him” he murmured and shook his head “I never understood that really... Well if we move quickly enough we can catch him at the parlor!” he said excitedly already moving towards the place.

The chocolate skinned man was about to say that it might not be a good idea to do just that when fate decided to intervene.

The hooded figure looked up.

His eyes were like a drawn magnet searching his and they found him. Pinning him in place from the bottom of the stairs, hazel honeyed orbs pulled on him. He watched as recognition took place and the way they darkened in annoyance, like they were nothing but flies pestering him. But on the other hand Deaton saw those orbs speaking a different language. A deep bone tiredness, a deep sorrow that no one could truly understand.

Loneliness.

Stiles Stilinsky was alive.

But Alan Deaton wondered, who was he now? 


	4. With Tyche and a Window From The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That little shit!” he thought, seething with anger, “Fuck her! Fucking Tyche and her fucking habits as a goddess of luck. I was so going to have a conversation with that minor goddess you couldn’t even start to see the ways I was going to rip her a new one. You’ll see. Just wait. Her temple was going to be full of I don’t know yet but it will be full of something. Very smelling. Very nasty and awful. And ugly. Like those orangey flowers she absolutely detested. I was going to steal all of her right shoes and fill the left ones with mud. Damned little girl. And her damned little games” he rambled in his mind raging away what he couldn’t exactly do in the open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I sadly own nothing but the plot? :(

chapter 4

[ _tyche and a window from the past_ ]

> “ _For me? It’s all good and dandy to learn from my failures, but I prefer to learn from the failure of others. You see, after being burnt the way I was, you kind of... push others to the front and see what happens. They become the trial run for your own experiences._ ” **\- Stiles Stilinsky**  

Betrayal.

Disloyalty. Treachery. Faithlessness. Falseness. Duplicity. Deception. Breach of trust. Stab in the back. Double-cross. _Perfidy_.

Call it whatever you like, say it how many times you want, every time you ear it is still has such an ugly meaning. It doesn’t matter the wording you give it. Each time I hear any of this words, it is like I can feel it - because I have already felt it in my skin. Cutting me, making me bleed. I was put up to test and I’ve failed miserably. No one should ever have to go trough that; no one should ever made another to feel that way, because it makes us so vulnerable, so disoriented, so small and full of pain. So lost and confused, you lose your footing, you lose what you thought you could lean on and suddenly-- suddenly you fall. Fall and fall and fall on the open air, never stopping. And always wondering how much more hurt it will continue to give. You wonder how much more can you take, how much more can you stand and take the hits.

Having the kind of knowledge that the people you love the most could do that kind of thing to you?

_No_.

I wish that to no one.

After _my--_

After my mother died the way she did, after the events that made me fall away from grace, I had to run from that place. I had to leave because the loss, the pain and anger were so great and unbending that I felt myself crumbling and falling into a place that was full of despair. Truth were said and things were uncovered in such a way that I became overwhelmed with feelings of hate and doubt. So much doubt. Doubt in me. In others. In what this world truly was to me; who were the others that had the same kind of questions? I wanted to run from everything. I’ve desired death with such strength; I’ve wished for her to come and take me but above everything else, I had the desire to understand what I was.

They say time heals the wounds.

I am time.

I am everything you can imagine. I am will, desire and raw undiluted power. I have the kind of power you would kill for. And yet my wounds hurt just as much as they hurt when I first got them. I couldn’t undo the past no matter how much I wanted, no matter how much I felt it was justified to - it was a rule. And isn’t that so stupid? To be able to have that kind of power and not be able to use it? The scars and tattoos in my body are reminders. In them I’ve wrote so I wouldn’t forget those rules, because it is the way I live now. The way I think, the way I survive, the way I walk. The way I know it is right but-- That doesn’t mean it stops hurting. I’ve became a bit more bitter about the world, a bit more septic in the concept of family and of love. A bit more jaded. It is true that love is what hurts the most but it is also the most rewarding. Even so, I think the price is way to much high.

I would avoid paying its cost again.

So, the way I felt when I looked at Alan Deaton after eight years of never laying an eye or ear on, would not prepare me for the way I would feel when I looked at him. And guess nothing could ever prepare me.

Disloyalty. Treachery. Faithlessness. Falseness. Duplicity. Deception. Breach of trust. Stab in the back. Double-cross. Perfidy.

_Betrayal_.

None of those words made justice.

[...]

That night Stiles dreamed.

He dreamed of ashes.

Of ashes that fell from the sky. Small little grey flakes that smelt like death; covering the lands like a blanket, covering his hands and disappearing into dust between his fingers. Amber eyes looked around the city watching its ruins crumbling; he could easily recognize it for he knew it by heart. Beacon Hills. Dark fiery skies and rumble of the earth beneath his feet. But he could only a feel. The earth moving it’s core, the electricity that wrapped his body. He could only smell the death. He could only see the darkness that was descending. He could not ear. Nothing. Just a faint buzzing sound - like-like he lost something, he tried to wonder what was but he didn’t knew. What was he looking for in the beginning? The silence was so consuming, so intense it made his breath quicken; it was like a poison spreading trough his mind. He wanted it to stop. He could feel his feet crush the dust bellow but couldn’t ear it.

What did he loose?  _What. Did. He. Loose?_

And then they were there. Some sort of markings on the ground around him and the fire. So much fire. And then _then--_

And then he woke up to his cellphone blaring. ‘ _And here we are, we’re the princes of the universe; Here we belong, fighting for survival; We’ve come to be the rulers of your world_ ’. Stiles blinked a few times before he could even get the dream out of his head - it was already fading onto the background. He knew he wasn’t going to remember it by the time he got up. He looked at the caller and narrowed his eyes, passing a hand on his face as he answered the call. Snorting at the voice that immediately came from the other side of the line.

“I should just block you from my list” the young man said sitting up from the couch, looking around “But you always find a way to reach me right? What are you doing calling me at this ungodly hour of the morning? Do you think I have your life? I need my beauty sleep sugarplum. And you aren’t giving it to me...” hearing the swearing from the other side he laughed at the answer it got him.

His eyes got caught up in the body that was bagged and waiting near the door. Because he such a fine person he fell asleep in the same room as a dead body; such an wonderful person. Just so you know there is a preservation charm on it so he couldn’t actually smell it. So yay for that.

“Dude, you have shop duty today” Stiles told Van while he took a step closer to the lifeless werewolf on the ground. Out of all the races it had to be a fucking werewolf, because werewolf’s are such stupid and instinctual creatures - he hated them so much.

_Lies. Liar.Liar. Liar. Lying liar who lies._

_Ungrateful little shit._

A voice echoed in his head making his eyes flash white for a second and the energy crack around him in response.

He grind his teeth together and ignored the way his mind was so fractured that he had almost two persons inside of him. He knew very well what he really thought. After all his knuckles bore a tattoo made so long ago in jest to-- to someone whom did not deserve his time or his most minimal thought.

“I have to... Finish up some things around here. I’ll see you later at the closing” the young spark ended the call and locked his eyes on that lump “Stupid dog. Stupid mutt” he sneered at the corpse like he could vent his anger at the damned unknown were. His face twisted in an ugly parody of a smile.

He sighed and shook his head. “ _This one had no fault,_ ” he believed and he didn’t deserve his bad mood, even if he tried - very poorly - to kill him. His shoulders slumped and he pressed my hands to his face trying to get my frustration out; he hated being tempted like this. He just wanted peace and being left alone... Well not exactly alone but... He didn’t know. This was becoming a problem; his temper was getting shorter and shorter. He was getting angrier and the control over his own power was dwindling again. Maybe he should just get a trip.

Stiles felt the frustration rise again. After so many years the yearning had yet to pass and he was getting increasingly restless. He knew he was missing something, he just didn’t know what but I needed to know quickly. Before it got out of hand or he would do something he would regret later.

Lifting his hands to his temples, he felt a headache coming his way. Giving up on the matter for now he let it take a background plan; right now he had another pressing matters.

Like a dead body in the apartment.

Sighing again he thought how he needed to take a bath to try and get his thoughts in order and relax a bit. He needed to go to the Halls and have a conversation with Meister Pieter and let him know of this; he just didn’t want to have any repercussions on this. It was bad enough to tell the neighbors that the shot had come from a bad joke a friend played on him. Life was just to hard you know?

He entered the bathroom with heavy footsteps and thoughts. It was small and simple and he hadn’t a mirror on it. A while after moving into the apartment he had broken it - a demon had tried to enter his goddamn house from it. No more mirrors were accepted in that house. So there was the reason. He grabbed a towel from the small cabinet and took his cloths off, getting in to the shower. The water was pleasantly warm and he let himself be soothed by the water running down the body.

He knows what other people would be thinking about him right now: how one could be so calm with having a dead guy in the fucking living room. But you know what? After having seen and passed so much you loose your sensibility to certain things. And eventually after being actually dead you kind of loose a bit of your own mind and your soul.

“I am immortal, I have inside me blood of kings, yeah!!” he sang around the falling water, “I have no rival, no man can be my equal.”

[...]

This was not in his plans.

This was so not in his plans.

Stiles swore to any god that he did nothing to deserve this! He knew he was not exactly the best example. He might or might not have done some really very very nasty things but it didn’t mean he deserved this! This had so many levels of stupidity and bad luck and stupid fucking coincidences that he kind of... froze. He hated my life right now. He hated the entire fucking world and if he could - and he probably could -, he would set the fucking building on fire and erase those two of his sight.

He knew that the witch doctor already spotted him and had the knowledge of who he was - even with the damned mask. The man was too good at this game of soul searching. And knowing the way his magical signature felt from all those years back, made it kind of easy for him. Even without the eyes. Because Stiles knew now that Alan Deaton always had a thing for his... her eyes and he kind of - well inherited them.

Just like his babcia. Although in the end he took a very different path from the two of them; he still came to be and have some of their traits. But that was beside the point, because now he had two pressing matters in his hands - or right in front of him.

And their names were Alan Deaton and Isaac Lahey.

“ _That little shit!_ ” he thought, seething with anger, “ _Fuck her! Fucking Tyche and her fucking habits as a goddess of luck. I was so going to have a conversation with that minor goddess you couldn’t even start to see the ways I was going to rip her a new one. You’ll see. Just wait. Her temple was going to be full of I don’t know yet but it will be full of something. Very smelling. Very nasty and awful. And ugly. Like those orangey flowers she absolutely detested. I was going to steal all of her right shoes and fill the left ones with mud. Damned little girl. And her damned little games_ ” he rambled in his mind raging away what he couldn’t exactly do in the open.

He narrowed his eyes in annoyance; he didn’t want to come near any of them.

He wanted to get rid of them.

And it was that want he was having a difficult time to not be tempted to fulfill. He breathed through his nostrils and the warm air pushed around his face as the masked trapped it in there. Tilting his head to side for a few seconds, Stiles knew instinctually that he had to move. He didn’t want people getting into his personal space, he didn’t want for people to notice him that much. He was getting just ready to just ignore those two as he took a step again and continued to walk up quickly. He saw older man opening his mouth to say something but nothing came out.

Thanks to any kind of deity.

Except Tyche.

He wasn’t going to be thanking her any time soon.

“Mister--” he heard the third element of the small party trying to call him. But he had other plans. And that meant he had to pass right in front of anyone, well, he did not care in the least. He wasn’t really worried that he wasn’t in any audience list today - they were going to have to make some time to him. They always did.

“Don’t even think about it Jancer, I am here to solve a problem” when he felt the emissary trainee trying to reach him “Where’s Master Pieter?” he kept walking and he felt them following him into the chamber of the Council of the Emissaries. The scribes inside the smaller room looked up for a few moments and then dismissed them completely in favor of their work.

“He is going to have a meeting with the emissary of the Hale Pack, Alan Deaton” said the man looking at Stiles with big round brown eyes and lips parted like he wanted to say something he shouldn’t - well he probably wanted - and gestured at the man behind the young spark.

“Well I guess he is going to have to wait” he said with a fake smile full of teeth “I have some really pressing problems to talk with your Meister” Stiles told him and kept walking towards what should be the entrance of Pieter’s room.

“Sti-” he heard Deaton’s voice and his heart constricted painfully, his heartbeat doubled and he looked back at the witch doctor and waved a hand and cutting off his voice, just right there. Literally cutting off his voice - as in making it disappear.

“ _żaden głos_ ” he whispered and watched with satisfaction as the witch doctor chocked on his breath without the ability to make it work “You won’t be saying a word and you shut your whining mutt” he said to Lahey as he snarled, his eyes glowing blue “What? Want the same treat? Or maybe I should just turn you into the toddler I know you are” he sneered at them and turned his amber orbs at Jancer who had his eyebrows furrowed “Don’t waste my time Mark. Where is Pieter?” he asked a second time, his tone showing his lack of patience.

“You don’t need the bad mood boy” a voice said from the left side of the room and Stiles looked at the man that had spoken “Come on and make it quick. I am truly sorry Alan but this seems to be important” he then looked at him grey piercing eyes. He wore a blue tunic with an intricate pattern; his hair was already white and his face full of wrinkles that told much of his age. The aura of power surged with him but his smile was kind and a bit condescending.

Witch Doctors tend to be, like druids and such.

Think they’re all so good and super duper cool.

Stiles didn’t appreciate them.

He didn’t even bother as he looked from the corner of his eye, Deaton bristling in his direction and he couldn’t avoid the smile. It helped to ease a bit of the tension it got into him since he saw the two of them in the Halls. He was already getting a bit of problems in his corner; truth is he needed no more. And he also didn’t need the past to make any appearances. They entered a room that he already familiar with, perhaps it had been good for him not to just barge in there as usual it could’ve gone wrong in so many ways. There was a fireplace in there and two mirrors, a mahogany desk that had intricate designs looking heavy and absolutely beautiful. The room was decorated in golds and reds, tapestries and a few sculptures, loads and loads of books. And his particular favorite - the waiting chairs.

“So what do we own the pleasure of the appearance of the Alchemik?” Pieter said taking his seat behind the desk and making a few papers floating in his direction. This man core had an affinity with the air and the winds, he was a singer rather than a soldier. And that’s why he held this position.

“Serin is dead” he said abruptly and bluntly looking at his hands. His voice was heavy, as it was his heart. He thought that the reality of the loss it hadn’t settled yet inside of him. He was too preoccupied in thinking of himself. Having lost someone was not new to him, but someone he wasn’t expecting was a bit more surprising. Something might be wrong with him, he thought dimly. He knows what he has become, the bitter man he was coming to be but this was more than that. Was he that emotionally stunned? That he couldn’t even process the loss?

“My condolences...” he said stopping what he was doing “You two were friends, am I right? You two seemed pretty close at times” his voice was gentle and Stiles guess that was what broke a crack in the wall within him. He felt the weight of the knowledge settle on him; a mantle of grieve settled in his back making him hunch. The hurt came with a vengeance making him stagger to the chair.

“We were” his voice roughed a bit around the edges has his hands curled in the pants. He breathed slowly trying to avoid to crumble right in front of this man. He hated to be weak, he was once weak but now he was greater than that. Stiles shook his head, he would have time to process everything once he got home and there he would rage again. He would cry and he would vent, he could be empty, but until then he would have to wait. “I received a packaged directed a few days ago” he said taking a small coin that sat in the desk “At first I thought it was a joke, a bad one but a week later a werewolf barged into my house and tried to kill me. With a gun” he looked at the old Meister with a raised eyebrow and an unimpressed expression.

“What happened?” he asked joining his hands and setting his head on them, giving him his full attention. A curious look in eyes.

“I killed him on the spot” he said with an emptiness in his words “It was out of reflex” he added twirling the coin in his fingers with a wry smile “But now that I replayed it in my minds eye, I can tell you that he was not there out of his free will. ‘ _Ence_ the reason why I am here” he flipped the coin onto the air and looked at the floor with his brow furrowed “Something killed an Asimaar, how could that happen?” he asked Pieter still not looking in his direction “I mean they’re not even a threat. They’re made of cotton candy! Rainbows! They’re good - instinctually so. Powerful yes... but _good_...” his booming voice was now reduced to a whisper.

“We are in the verge of a war, Stiles. The supernatural faces the threat of expose” he said his voice calm and using the young sparks’ name made him look up and pause “They tick where it hurts the most. Killing Serin was a low blow to you. You have few that are precious and, as you said, this is a power display. I don’t know what they are trying to accomplish by meddling with you but you already know my position in this” he stated clearly and Stiles knew he was not going to like what the old man said next “You hold a power in the supernatural community that could unbalance things. You’re neutral and perhaps they are trying to force you into a choice...?”

“Do not mock me Jonathan” the spark said suddenly looking at him from the chair “I wish no harm. I just want to be left alone. It is in my nature not to give a _damn_ \--” he sent the coin in the air again willing her to flip slowly. Taking his amber orbs from it he lock them in the older man, “But I am not to be threatened like this. I am no messenger boy. I don’t like it and neither should you. Putting a werewolf trying to kill me like that is pathetic. Almost humiliating. If I didn’t knew the poor bastard was being controlled by something I was going to have a word with Malakia” he stilled the coin for a few seconds and then let her fall right into his palm, “But since I’m such a good person, I came to you” he said getting up.

“Don’t turn this on _me_ -” he cut him right in the middle of his own words.

“Then don’t turn it on me either!” Stiles raged in a seething voice, “I came to justly warn you that something out there is messing up even more than Thomas and his little hunters” he got up and narrowed his eyes “I am not your enemy. I am no one’s enemy and I don’t want to get more involved in this than I must. I take no sides Pieter. I don’t care. I left the body in the diggers, suit yourself.”

Stiles got out of the room; the door hitting the wall after him, making a loud sound that reverberated through the room. He advanced within the chamber watching as Deaton and Lahey sat up in their chairs anxiously. The young spark heard the door open behind him again but he was already leaving taking his cue to get the hell out there and ignore the existence of those two. Even if for a few hours. He lifted a hand towards the witch doctor and reverted the spell, while looking back towards Jonathan Pieter, the Emissary of the New York Pack, and supreme Emissary of the supernatural.

“Consider this my first and last warning.” with that he disappeared into the crowd once more.

[...]

He hated to realize that these kind of events were not coincidences.

For once he knew Isaac was going to follow him and he did so. Stiles didn’t dare to get out of the church grounds; he had no wish for them to know where he was living or for them to know the location of the shop. He grew more irritated and agitated by each second he waited for the young wolf to make his move. He kept pacing around trying to get out some of the energy that seemed to wrap around his body like a second cloak. He wanted to go home and loose himself into something, he was feeling the death of Serin and the conversation with Pieter left him unsettled.

“Get out of there mutt” I finally said “I knew you were there the moment you caught your foot on the bench” he finally broke and told him as he came from the shadows of an archway. His eyes were trained on Stiles and his lips partially open like he wished to say something other than just flop around and make no sound.

“At first I didn’t recognize you or your scent but... It is really you...” he said in a whisper and the young spark knew he was recognized by the werewolf “Stiles?” he ask, his tone full of uncertainty and wonder.

The spark pulled his sleeves back down and curled my fingers around the edges of the red coat. Trying to hide himself inside of his robs. He had found it so funny, wearing a red hooded coat since he was running from the wolves. And more than ever he wanted to run again; looking into the lost eyes of Isaac Lahey. They didn’t hit off at first. Stiles and Isaac. They had stole things from each other and there was a time that they were vicious in their little battles. But in the end they came to understand each other. Growing up together either makes you hate or accept things like these. And they accepted each other as friends. A long time ago. They knew we had in each other the possibilities of becoming such good friends. _But_ \--

Like so may other things in his life, he was cut from it.

“Yeah. The one and only” Stiles looked at the him. The wolf’s hands curling and un-curling like he wished to touch the spark. Unfortunately for him, few had that right and he wasn’t one of them. Isaac was trembling with the need, he could see it and his face, held so many emotions that he couldn’t identify them all. Sorrow. Hope. Sadness. Anger. He was about to ask him what he and Deaton were doing here but he beat him to it. Taking his breath with his words. “You know? We are getting called into the fight” he said his voice wavered and he looked at the man he once knew, “We don’t exactly have a choice. They are calling all the ruler Packs you see? And ours was called into the Halls” his voice was miserable. Stiles had learned that Isaac could be many things but he loathed violence, since his own family had done so much to him.

No. No. No. _No_. It is your fault. _Your damned fault_.

Stiles tried block the voice inside his head and froze. The nightmare, the killing and now this?

What?!

“ _What_!?” Stiles asked his tone unbelieving. His heartbeat was hard and fast, giving the weird sensation that it was going to lurch from his chest “What do you _mean_ \--”

But he was cut off by a presence behind him.

It was one of those moments where everything freezes. The world, your mind, your breath and even your heart stops. And you wonder... You wonder what is it with life that had to make things so difficult for you. Why does it have to be this way. Stiles felt acutely as the control started to slip trough his fingers, as his mind became a dark irrational place.

“Deaton called, what’s wrong? What is happening in here?” he heard that voice and his heart stopped and then doubled it’s speed “Who is this? Who are you?” the owner of the voice turned his nose in the air in my direction and eyes getting a shade of gold that told about his status as a werewolf.

Fucking werewolves.

Fucking Scott McCall.

This was too much.

He _just_ \--


	5. judge and fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That night Stiles fell asleep with the smell of sand and salt assaulting his nose; to the sound of waves and wind filling his ears; to feeling of the cold chill water of the deep sea in his skin. And he dreamed. He dreamed of oceans and storms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before you go further than this
> 
> \- WARNING: i've rewritten the last chapters.  
> \- WARNING: tags have been added. 
> 
> reasons! tho I still left the beginning of the chapter in the first person, like I started it, I find it easier to write in the third person. I hope the writing is better. And yes it was full of mistakes [I'm truly sorry about all that, seriously] and still probably is but I guess it is better. 
> 
> part of the quote from Stiles [Wrath is no vice when inflicted upon the deserving.] has been shamelessly taken from, Akroma, angel of wrath. I hope you still enjoy it. thanks for the kudos and the comment :)! and in the next chapter some answers will be given and the plot will finally come out in the open :P
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I always forget the disclaimer you now? so there. I own nothing but the plot and stuff like that :(

chapter 5

[ _judge and fury_ ]

 

> “ _Wrath is no vice when inflicted upon the deserving. But who is to judge who are the deserving or the undeserving?_ ” - Stiles Stilinsky

The world was nothing but a bright flame and I was the spark of it’s destruction.

It was what I felt that night.

I was the spark. They just pulled the wrong trigger because I killed them. I killed them all.

 _Dead_. Dead. DEAD.

There was nothing left for anyone to see.

Anger and rage and fear burned in my body. They coiled and twisted my insides making them churn until I had to vomit everything I had ever ate. Until I was empty. Until I thought that my own soul had come out of my body. The surge was so violent that I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t breath, couldn’t think. I could do nothing but cry and let my body fall onto the ground with pain. Let the world burn around me and take whatever life was near. I could only let my power fully take its place.

As I ascended and took my mothers heritage.

She was dead. They were dead. Everyone was dead.

It was a test.

IT A FUCKING TEST. They were testing where my limits lie. They were toying and they played the price. Oh such a very high price, because I responded. I took it as real. I wanted nothing more than destroy them at the moment I knew what was happening. I wanted for them to take it back. TAKE IT BACK. I wanted them to undo what they made me do - I wanted nothing to do with it! Instead I made my will known and I passed with flying colors.

After killing half of the town.

They came to Beacon Hills to meet this greater power.

_The only thing they met was their maker._

I would dare for they to judge me because - because it wasn’t fair. They ripped everything from me. I was so mad, so angry. I felt like I was floating out of my own body without my true consent. A puppet being controlled by my own power. It was like a force inside of me; another will that battled my own. I was so full of magic, so full of energy that I couldn’t just stop. I had _to_ \-- I was driven into that edge where you can only jump.

I forgot who I was, I forgot what I was doing, where I was. I forgot everything.

I was everything, yet nothing.

And wasn’t that scary? To loose control over yourself?

That night I had two different dreams. A nightmare that was going to plague me for the rest of my life because it was the memories of my deeds. And also I had a dream of a tree and a man. I dreamt of an endless road; a never ending path that made my feet bleed with the roughness of the stones and cruelty of thorns. But eventually it ended.

At the end of that road there was a strange tree.

And below that tree there was a man.

And that man said to me: “ _There are no more gods._ ”

[...]

It was like a snake.

The anger was a living thing, twisting and coiling inside of him. A black liquid that rose like a tidal wave ensnaring his senses, his thoughts, his body. Consuming him and leaving his mind blank of all that grounded him. The control Stiles fought so hard to have was escaping him; he could imagine it slipping trough his fingers like sand, like water. And he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

The worse was he wasn’t so sure he wanted it to stop. He wanted to rage. To harm. To make himself known. Yet part of him was telling him that he shouldn’t, that this wasn’t right. It wasn’t the way. He should give them a chance. He laughed out loud and the idiotic of it all. He couldn’t even control himself, he truly was what they preached him to be.

He was master of everything except himself.

The laugh seemed to put the other wolf on edge, making him advance into the garden and put himself between Isaac and him. The werewolf had his eyes narrowed and there were some furry edges picking around. He was mad and ready to fight. And the young spark wanted it. Desired it. Something in him snapped and one voice rose above all the others in his head, clear and sound.

“ _Fight him_ ” it said “ _Hurt him_ ” it whispered “ _Make him see_ ” it commanded.

“Who are you?” Scott McCall questioned once more “Do I know you?” he tilted his head giving a loud sniff that would getting him nowhere. With his never wavering character he plowed through not heeding the light soft hand touching his shoulder like a warning.

“Scott don’t” Isaac warned the young wolf. He could feel and tell that the tension in the air was rising, “Please _no_ \--” he tried again. He was seeing the small specks of earth getting in the air, as if they were commanded by some invisible force. He had seen Stiles making Deaton shut up with a single gesture and he hadn’t said a thing. What would he do when provoked? And Scott - poor oblivious Scott - was never know for the gift of natural perception.

And Isaac could see the fight coming. From miles away and before he could do anything more to prevent if the other man in the small garden spoke. And right now the young spark felt like to appreciate the gift of that obliviousness.

“You used to” Stiles answered behind his mask “Like I used to” there was a cruel smile stretching his full lips. His hands uncurled from the ends of his sleeves, opening with palms up like a mockery of a surrender “I fail to see the point of your coming here, tho. Or is it that you were so afraid that I would hurt you that you had to call your guard dogs?” he asked with a voice that dripped as if poisoned honey to the other wolf behind Scott.

Eyes flashed gold again and there was growl vibrating in the chest of the slightly hispanic looking wolf. Scott was bigger than he remembered; stockier and more consistent than the young teen he used to know. He hair was cropped short showing his crocked jaw proudly and his face sharper and cleaner. Isaac was still trying to ground the other beta but it was obvious that Stiles knew what he was doing by pushing the right buttons.

“You bet that they have my protection any time of the day” he slurred slightly because of the fangs that were already appearing from the thin lips, “And you, whoever you are, get the hell out or you’ll regret ever coming near him or anyone from my pack for that matter” he threatened taking a step forward and let his hands show his nails. The spark barked out a laugh at those words. This was exactly the same Scott of all those years; he could still bate him until there would be no problem taking a fight out of this.

“Oh?” Stiles took a side step and kept his smile on his face, “What happens if I touch him?” he heard the wolf growl and he chuckled “Like this?” he asked and at the same time disappeared from the spot he was coming to the side of Isaac, touching the other man with a finger.

The werewolf lounged at him and Stiles vanished again to appear near one of the portals. Laughing at the confused half shifted wolf, whom just growled and launched himself at Stiles again. The latter just pushed himself out of the way toying with the beast, evading its claws when they came to close and the same time letting the roiling electricity pinch the wolfs skin.

When he got tired of playing the game with Scott he grabbed him in the neck, whispering a seal of confinement that froze and made him look at his eyes like some mad dog. Stiles felt, rather than let, the electricity creep into his hands. It sizzled and burnt some of the werewolf’s hairs.

“Świętomierz! _Kwita_!” a voice boomed from the other side and that stopped him. Pieter had come to him and so had Deaton. And that stopped the young spark from going any further than letting the electricity brush gently along the wolf’s body. He looked at the scared but daring eyes of the one he used to call his best friend - his partner in crime. He felt such a sadness inside of him. More than anything he wanted to be recognized by him. He now wanted that.

 _He was no longer weak_.

Stiles took his mask and kept looking at McCall in his eyes; watching as realization crept into the now brown orbs. He felt how the hands around his wrists tightened and then gentled; he watched the fight go out of the body in front of him. He let go of the wolf and watched as he fell into the ground. Eyes round with so many emotions that Stiles could be days trying decipher each and every of them.

“We used to friends. We used to be brothers. We used to rule the world” he said his voice full of a deep longing “We are nothing more than acquaintances” he continued as he took one step back his eyes still in the other three “We are nothing. We were _always_ nothing to you” with that, he bowed vanishing from the spot and breaking any wards around the small church.

[...]

“I am sorry. I am sorry” he said as tears streamed down his face “I am so so _so sorry_ ” he sobbed “I don’t want to feel like this anymore” he said his voice rough from the tears “ _Please_ ” he begged as he fell onto his knees.

There was another man in the room and he immediately jumped at the sight of someone appearing out of nowhere in his living room. His position stiff and magic was already crackling around. But when the words were truly heard he calmed his beating heart and took two steps forward, letting his knees fall onto the ground.

“Stiles” he said wrapping his arms around the young man, “ _Stiles breath_ ” his hand was rubbing the back of the spark “Stiles breath for me” he asked and felt the man in his arms take a shuddering breath and sobs escaped those full lips.

“ _Pleasepleaspleasepleasepleasepleaseplease_ ” he said like a mantra. Not even sure of what he was sorry for, not sure of what happened. Not sure of what he felt. Everything was just so confusing and he wanted an anchor. The only two he ever had were ripped from him and now he refused to hold onto something that was going to make him hurt again. But he needed it. He knew he needed it.

“Come now” the man gently tried to coaxed the other man to speak “What is wrong _dearest_?”

The man was tall and he wore a blue leather jacket over a white tee and some black jeans and were snuggly fit into his legs. You could see fine lines of a tattoo pecking from his neck; his hair was cropped short and was pure white. His eyes blue; the kind of blue you only saw on the ocean, the kind that lead to thunderstorms and told tales of power and determination.

The kind you could fall in love for hours.

“Raz” the name of the man came in a broken whisper, “I _can’t_ \-- I don’t even know what I want...” he said brokenly between sobs. He truly didn’t and it confused him and hurt him and there was this desire to be one again with them, be part of that. But the _anger--_  The anger was so bad. He wanted to see him again. He wanted _to_ -

“It is going to be alright” a thick british accent told him and he believed the man. Because it was the only thing he could do. Believe Răzvan and let him guide him. Let him find his footing again because this was the only piece of safety he had. This was the only place where he could let himself be “Cry now Stiles, let it all go” he told him in a soothing voice, “Tomorrow we will talk.”

" _And talk they would_ " thought Răzvan as he tightened his arms around the mess that was _his_ \-- He wanted to let his own rage be known but he knew it wasn’t the time or place for such thing. Now he had to take care of the spark. Times were about to change he felt it in his bones and in his magic. His power clashed with the young spark and he knew sooner or latter Stiles was going to blew up. He stroked his thumps in the cheeks of the man, taking away the tears. Răzvan smiled at Stiles dipping his head and touching his lips to the young sparks brow. Letting them linger and give a chill to the body pressed to his. Letting him know that he was no longer alone and that it was alright to be there. Nothing else mattered for now.

He was safe from harm there.

That night Stiles fell asleep with the smell of sand and salt assaulting his nose; to the sound of waves and wind filling his ears; to feeling of the cold chill water of the deep sea in his skin. And he dreamed. He dreamed of oceans and storms.

Somewhere in the city wolf howled an unhallowed sound.

Somewhere in a loving embrace a spark lost yet another bit of his soul.

Somewhere in the world man smiled.

“ _There are no more gods._ ”


	6. And Peace Shall Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glory is like a circle in the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> Pan - Sir, Master
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothin'.

Chapter 6

[ _and peace shall sleep_ ]

“ _I was not chosen because of my faith in the gods. I was chosen because I challenged them. And I won. So if you assume I’m arrogant, you are wrong. I am not. On the other hand, you are the one who is arrogant; after all you think you and I share the same power and knowledge. You think we are the same and we are most definitely not._ ” - **Adrien Dalca**

[...]

Glory is like a circle in the water.

It fades with time, disappears between your fingers like liquid lust. It feels good in the moment but then it’s nothing more than a memory. When everything around you dies and you keep living, glory is nothing. A good deed no matter how good it feels it is never truly appreciated; just like a glorious deed turns into a myth. To be forgotten, to be erased and never again spoken for. And it pains me to realize that.

I’ve been asleep for long a time now.

A self imposed darkness that I brought because I was tired to see the world die around me - even if it came to reborn again and again. When you start to see what you love grow away and fade, you do get tired. To see the deeds you sacrificed yourself not even looking at you leaving you there to rot... It makes your heart heavy with sadness. The world keeps going around you but you seem to be stuck in time, stuck in your own memories. So decided that I needed to truly stop and gentle myself with dreams of what was. I cast myself a spell to never wake up again.

So I slept and slept and slept.

Dreamed of nothing and everything; never knowing that the world around me was decaying. And while the world was coming to it’s end the darkness took into the roots of my beloved creations. It filled it cracks and eventually it found me, deep in the earth; it found me with all that was there underground and it became a part of me.

You see darkness has way to slip through the purest of the hearts and turn them into black midnight coal. And I am like everyone else. Because at first I was human and so more corruptible than the others; more inclined to take a side and easily seduced by power. Even if I had already given my power away a voice inside of me spoke, for me to retrieve it.

So when he opened his eyes for the first time, when he whimpered his first baby _cry_ -

I also opened my eyes and became again.

[...]

A raping sound against the door broke the silence.

“ _Pan Dalca_ ” a voice called and the man in question slowly lifted his eyes from the pages he was reading “Your guests have arrived. What do you desire me to do?” other man spoke again bowing low and waiting for a command. Casting a glance at the bowing figure he sighed lightly and splayed his long slim fingers in the paper.

“Very well,” the one that was called Dalca let his rest into the inked letters again so he could mark his reading place “Show them the parlor. I’ll be there soon...” he said but made no move to get away from his place. To comfortable to move and besides, even if they were guests... He had an inkling that they would not mind to wait for him.

The servant seemed to see the dismissal clearly and left the room to fulfill its masters wishes, leaving the man still seated in the armchair in front of the fire. The room full of books and oddly shaped contraptions and many clocks. So many clocks, a few ticking but most of them stopped at strange and seemingly not important hours. The only thing that made everything slightly normal was the smell of burning wood that permeated the place.

Dalcas’ brown eyes looked away from the book and onto the window. The weather couldn’t be more into his intentions if he planed it. The darkness had already fallen like a great black mantle. The night was cold and the rain whipped at the glass like it was hail, making it sound like stones breaking into the house. The wind shook the trees making howling sounds onto the night. He was content it seemed that even mother nature knew of his intentions.

Eventually he got up.

His frame was tall and his hair was brown cropped short on his skull. Long limbs but full of shapely muscles; a milky white skin that was kissed with a constellation of beauty marks. Sharp features adorned with golden brown eyes that seemed to be polls of nothingness. All in all, Adrien Dalca seemed like a very handsome man.

A charming man ready to convince the world of his words.

[...]

“So _you_ desire _us_ to move our forces right onto the heart of the confluence?” the man that was sitting almost at the end of the table asked; his voice mocking and yet a curiosity was there at the edges of the question, “You want us to use the _Nemeton_ as a point of referral? That is crazy as it goes” he said shaking his head.

“That is like a suicidal mission!” a man with grizzly hair and a very wrinkled skin “Don’t you think? Iacobus? Aarden?” he asked to the other man on the table. The demon looked at the plans displayed on the table but said nothing and the other opened his mouth to be interrupted by another figure.

“I find it a tempting plan...” the other man said; this one had his eyes glazed covered with a milky white sheen that told of his blindness.

“Of course you would _Deucallion_ ” Iacobus the young skald looked at the older werewolf to something akin to respect but it quickly fell form his eyes “I guess we should just plan it a bit more... Carefully I say?” the younger man proposed while looking at the end of the table towards their host.

A wave of protests started to rise yet his figure did not move.

Hands stapled together as he watched the brew the chaos themselves; trying to defend their positing with betraying their own loyalties. The truth was they would fall, because they were all weak and they would only serve one purpose.

So easily corrupted.

He stood up then, making everyone fall silent.

“It all resumes to this gentlemen...” Dalca said lifting his hands to his sides opening them wide and in a trustworthy fashion, “You help me fulfill my plans... And I’ll give what you most desire...” he looked around the table to see all eyes on him all the attention on his persona. He had everyone hanging on him; his words were like poison filling their glass and he could see them drinking it all up. Questions were stopped, not even whispers were heard.

“I’ll give you power.”

Be careful of what you wish for.

He smiled; an ugly stretch of lips that spoke of destruction, death and _war_.


End file.
